Defenders of Magic 01 - Night of the Eye

by Scorpion ZS 256

  "Remember that thing that attacked us in the mountains north of Palanthas? I know, you were in the mirror when it happened and missed all the excitement, but I told you all about it." Zagarus's feathered head nodded.

  "Before that, there were those pirates. .. ." Guerrand tapped his chin in thought. "I know there are pirates everywhere, but in the mouth of the Bay of Branchala? Even Captain Aldous said it was odd, that he'd never seen pirates so brazen. We were on a Berwick ship; it's not inconceivable someone could have found me."

  That's it? That's why you think someone is after you?

  Guerrand shook his head vigorously. "No. One day, Lyim and I went to the library, then to the marketplace to price components, and—"

  I don't remember that.

  Guerrand scratched his head. "I never told you about it. You must have been in the mirror, or you were free, scouring the waterfront. Lyim and I were leaving a dyed-goods stall; I remember it because the proprietor seemed to be staring at me strangely, almost fearfully. We weren't ten paces out of his stall when we were jumped by a pair of sailors. I remembered enough of my cavalier training to drive one off with my dagger. Lyim reacted quickly enough to frighten away the other with a spell, and we escaped into the throng of people.

  Guerrand shook his head. "Ever since that day, though, I get the distinct feeling someone—or something—is watching me whenever I leave the villa. I'm not overly concerned for myself, nor for Lyim. He'd probably like the intrigue, if I told him what I suspect."

  Guerrand paused momentarily as he fiddled with the quill. "But I can't take that chance around Esme."

  What are you going to do about it?

  "What can I do? Just be observant, and be careful, until the day when I can magically determine who's after me."

  Have you told Justarius?

  "I can't run to Justarius every time I see someone in the shadows," said Guerrand. "I also don't want him to think I'm more trouble than I'm worth. And since I'm fairly certain no one is in danger at Villa Rosad, I don't see any real need to tell him."

  Guerrand set the quill down. "Besides, I left Cormac's home to get control of my own life. I can take care of this myself."

  A sharp rap drew their attention to Justarius standing in the doorway. His calm expression suggested he'd not heard their conversation. The mage glanced around the room. "Hello, Guerrand. Zagarus," he added with a nod. "I came to tell you that you're going to the festival now."

  Guerrand raised his hands plaintively from his notes. "Oh, Justarius, I was just beginning to make some progress here. I'd really rather stay—"

  "No," the mage interrupted, "you're coming to the festival. No one is allowed to miss it, another tradition here at Villa Rosad. Rest assured, your notes will still be on your desk when you return."

  Seeing there was no recourse, with a sigh Guerrand closed his notebook, wiped the quill clean, then stood obediently.

  "Esme has gone ahead," explained the older mage, "but you and I will have a fine—or at least interesting—time. You'll see."

  *****

  Master and apprentice walked through the cool marble vestibule and into the terraced gardens that enhanced the entrance to Villa Rosad. The view from the winding mountain road that connected Justarius's home with the city below was deceptive. Nestled into the scrubby hillside, the villa looked narrow, not much wider than a primitive cottage. The similarity ended there.

  The facade of the building was supported by two twenty-foot statues intricately carved of rose marble. The statue to the right of the double door was a curvaceous woman dressed in the same type of soft-flowing gown Esme favored. The left statue was of a well-defined man, muscles bulging under his artfully draped toga. Both statues had regal, aquiline features and wore jewel-studded crowns. As Guerrand watched, the perfectly formed lips of the woman moved.

  "Are you going to the Festival of Knights, Justarius?"

  Justarius turned around with a salute and flourish at

  the sound of the statue's high-pitched monotone. "Yes, Mitild, I thought we might. It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

  Mitild's marble eyes shifted in their hard sockets. "Yes, the garden is quite perfect now. I prefer the autumn flowers, chrysanthemums and sedum."

  "I do wish we could go to the festival," said the male statue wistfully, his tone deeper, yet still mechanical. "It sounds so fascinating from up here."

  "Now, Harlin," said Justarius in a stern voice, "I've offered you and Mitild your freedom more times than either of us can remember."

  "Thirty-seven," supplied Harlin. "We couldn't possibly go free, Justarius. You know you'd be lost without us guarding the villa."

  "Yes, that's true enough," the mage agreed kindly.

  "Besides, what would we do with our freedom?" said Mitild in that high, hard-edged voice. "Walk through the city, frightening children?"

  "Couldn't you go live with other stone giants?" Guerrand suggested innocently. Suddenly he could feel the hot stares of two sets of cold marble eyes.

  "Harlin and I are not stone giants," Mitild said icily. "Justarius's master, Merick, brought some of those here a century or so ago. An ignorant, ugly bunch."

  "I'm sorry," said Guerrand quickly, flushing hotly. "I just assumed—"

  "Why, because we're as tall as buildings and made of marble?"

  "Well... yes."

  "Let up on the boy," admonished Justarius. "It was a logical assumption. He lacks your broad experience of stone giants, after all." The statues seemed mildly pacified.

  Mitild's eyelids narrowed as she peered intently at Justarius. "Oh, would you look at that? Please hold this, Harlin," she said with a quick glance to the cornice above her. To Guerrand's amazement, the perfectly sculpted male took one arduous step into the tiny doorway between the two statues. He twisted slightly, revealing a perfectly flat back, since only his front had been carved. Harlin reached up with his smoothly crafted left arm to support the portion of the roof above Mitild's crowned head.

  With the sluggish grace and grinding noises one would expect from moving marble, Mitild lifted the hem of her gown and stepped slowly down the stairs toward Justarius. Towering more than three times the height of the unperturbed mage, the giant statue reached down with her enormous, pale hand and tugged at the ever-present white ruff around the mage's throat. "Who would straighten your attire whenever you leave the villa?"

  "Certainly no one could do it as well as you, Mitild. It's become crystal clear to me that I could not run Villa Rosad without you, so wipe the thought from your heads," Justarius said firmly, pleased at the slight smiles his words brought to the lips of the statues. "And now, good day."

  With that, the mage grasped Guerrand by the elbow and propelled him through the garden. They could still hear the statues' cries of farewell from below on the winding road that led through the kettles to the valley in which Palanthas sat.

  Finally out of earshot, Guerrand ventured to ask, "If they're not stone giants, what are they?"

  Justarius shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea," he confessed. "Never have been able to figure it out. Mitild and Harlin came with Villa Rosad. They do a superb job screening and scaring off intruders. In exchange, I must spend a few minutes every now and then making them feel indispensable. It's a small enough price to pay."

  "They certainly frightened me sufficiently when I arrived for the first time." Guerrand recalled clearly the day he had followed the tower's shadow to Justarius's villa. "I was so thrilled at having found the place that I strolled straight in as if I owned it—until a pair of marble hands as big as my torso picked me up by the shoulders and made me introduce myself."

  Justarius laughed. "And they had orders to give you the hospitable treatment!"

  Despite having changed into a summer-weight robe of light linen, Guerrand was perspiring heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the hill. Justarius's road fed into one of the spokes leading to the city's southwest gate. Master and apprentice passed under the twin, golden minarets that
soared above each gate in the Old City Wall. The Tower of High Sorcery loomed to the left, commanding their attention. As usual, Guerrand shuddered.

  "The tower is an important part of our heritage as wizards," said Justarius, noting Guerrand's reaction. "However hideous it looks, however grim the stories surrounding its downfall, it is a constant reminder to us all how precarious is our position among nonmages. We must be ever-vigilant not to abuse our powers in the eyes of others. It is vital, not only for the survival of the orders, but more importantly to maintain the delicate balance between Good and Evil."

  "Frankly, in my little corner of the globe, I never thought of the world as locked in any sort of eternal struggle," admitted Guerrand. "If I had, I might have concluded that the best world is one entirely dominated by Good."

  Justarius looked deeply puzzled. "Then why did you declare allegiance to the Red Robes, instead of the White?"

  "I listened carefully to all three descriptions of the orders given at the tower," said Guerrand, then paused. He looked at Justarius with concern. "Can I be frank, without retribution?"

  Guerrand's master frowned. "J expect nothing less from my apprentices."

  "Since you've asked, I thought Par-Salian's definition of the philosophy of the White Robes too simplistic and idealistic to be possible. Simply telling everyone they should be good doesn't make it happen."

  Guerrand drew in a breath. "As for LaDonna's explanation of the Black Robes... it sounded like a rationalization for them to do whatever they want, the consequences be damned. That's just immoral."

  Justarius lifted one brow. "So you chose the Red Robes by default?"

  "No!" cried Guerrand. "I—I liked what you said about the importance of maintaining a balance between Good and Evil. I confess I didn't entirely understand it," he admitted sheepishly, "but at least I didn't disagree with it. Besides," the apprentice blurted, "I admired you."

  Justarius overlooked the admission and frowned. "I see we've neglected a critical part of your education."

  He stopped and pointed to the twisted, black Tower of High Sorcery. "Look there, and you will see the clearest example of what happens when the balance is upset and one force or another gains the upper hand."

  Guerrand shook his head. "Now I really don't understand. From all accounts, the kingpriest was evil. Wouldn't the outcome have been different if he had been good?"

  "Historians have labeled him evil since the Cataclysm." Justarius stroked his pointed beard. "But in his time, he was, with the exception of the insightful elves, considered by all to epitomize the qualities of goodness."

  They were walking slowly, still some distance from the city's inner circle, where the festivities appeared to be centered. Droves of people, grinning broadly in anticipation, were passing them up on the roadway.

  "Are you certain you want to hear this lecture now?"

  "If you'll recall, I was not the one so keen to come to the festival in the first place," jibed Guerrand.

  "Then, for my sake, let us sit while I give you the shortened version." Justarius gestured them toward some golden bales of hay stacked along the roadside for seats during the festival's many parades.

  "We use that title, 'kingpriest'," he began, once settled, "as if there has been only one. But centuries of humans held the title, and corrupted the office, before the ego of the last to hold it brought on the Cataclysm.

  "Nearly five hundred years before that great catastrophe, the city of Istar reigned as the center of commerce and art. As time went on, the citizens began to believe their own publicity too well. Claiming also to be the moral center, they went on to build a temple and install a kingpriest who would proclaim the glory of righteous Istar. The next logical step for such arrogance was to repress the opinions, independence, and talent of those who did not agree. The elves, with their artistic temperaments and infinite wisdom, withdrew from the world of arrogant humans.

  "Conditions dissolved rapidly," Justarius continued, "particularly without the temperance of the elves. A kingpriest declared that the rampant evil in the world was an affront to both gods and mortals. A list of evil acts was created, and the punishment for violation was swift. High on the list of evil acts was the execution of magic, but I think you know the story from there."

  The venerable mage winced suddenly and rubbed his withered leg. "The point is, Guerrand, these people thought they had a clear grasp of what was Good. They believed fervently that a world where their interpretation of Good prevailed would be best. Among the greatest misconceptions of this assumption is that everyone must agree upon what is good for mankind. But how can everyone agree, when two men can seldom concur about what is good for dinner?

  Justarius's gaze turned toward the blackened tower. "That," he concluded, "is why there will always be — why there must be — strife between Evil and Good. To maintain the neutral balance."

  Climbing stiffly to his feet, Justarius wriggled his nose as the scent of roasted meat wafted past. He looked toward the nearby stall of a food vendor and smacked his lips. "Enough somber talk on such a festive day," he announced. "This talk of dinner has made me hungry." Justarius forged ahead through the crowd, undaunted by his severe limp.

  Behind him, Guerrand weaved and dodged through the streams of people, trying to keep up with his master. As Justarius had promised, the trip was proving worthwhile. They hadn't even made it to the heart of the festival yet. Guerrand reflected that if the rest of the day was even half as interesting, it would surely be a fair to remember.

  Chapter Twelve

  The tall mage's head was clearly visible, always bouncing, just two arm-lengths ahead in the press of people. Try as he might, Guerrand could not catch up to him, even when Justarius stopped at a stall to purchase roasted venison. Is he trying to lose me in the crowd? the apprentice wondered in irritation. Is this part of some new lesson or test?

  Suddenly the trees lining the avenue were gone, and the mob spilled into Palanthas's Central Plaza, the heart of the festival. Guerrand momentarily forgot his annoyance as he gaped in wonder at the sea of multicolored awnings, fluttering pennants, and flapping banners. A forest of feathers in every color of the rainbow waved above a field of wool. Solamnic knights, the patrons of this festival, sat in gleaming armor atop their horses all around the plaza, adding a martial atmosphere to the scene.

  A group of young boys pushed past Guerrand, shouting and laughing with enjoyment. They carried small wooden swords and shields, which they swung with abandon, bashing companions and bystanders alike. Guerrand dodged to the side as a man in baggy trousers thumped past on towering stilts, all the while juggling a trio of gleaming, spinning scimitars above the crowd.

  Guerrand advanced warily into the churning mass, stretching his neck this way and that, trying to see everything at once. Shop fronts were open with the usual wares for sale. In addition, merchants from far-flung lands had arrived and set up tents around the perimeter of the central plaza. Exotic rugs, furs, and wall tapestries were piled high on makeshift tables. Men hawked containers of powdered spice they pledged would polish floors, cure the common cold, and properly spice a ham loaf. One merchant had an entire tent filled with a vast selection of ready-made windows comprised of multicolored shards of glass welded together with beads of cooled lead.

  The Festival of Knights was a far bigger event than the little country fairs he was used to. Guerrand realized that he hadn't blinked for some time and his mouth was hanging open. He slammed it shut, feeling self-conscious. Don't act like such a rube, he thought angrily.

  The apprentice started. Where was Justarius? Guerrand looked around frantically but saw no sign of his mentor's black hair and white ruff among the thousands of heads moving to and fro.

  "Guerrand! Guerrand, come here, lad!"

  The young apprentice's head shot up at the sound of his mentor's voice, but he could not sight Justarius anywhere in the impossibly packed throng.

  "Over here, Guerrand!"

  Guerrand followed the sound of Ju
starius's voice and finally caught sight of him just beyond where several old men played draughts on an upended barrel, oblivious to the noise and press of bodies around them. Justarius waved Guerrand toward him, where a thick line of people stood with their backs to Guerrand, apparently watching something. Every now and then the crowd hissed, cheered, and hollered. Guerrand at last squeezed his way to Justarius's side.

  "You really must try to keep up if you intend not to get lost," chided Justarius. "You've missed the most humorous exhibition, though I suppose they'll have another when they find two more contestants."

  Bouncing from side to side for a clearer view, Guerrand stood at the southern edge of the Central Plaza. A rectangular swath, thirty by fifty paces, of the neatly manicured lawn had been covered with a knee-high layer of moist, golden sand. Stomping about in a fluster on tall, scrawny legs were two of the largest birds Guerrand had ever seen. Their wide, flat bodies were covered with coarse black feathers. Tiny heads capped off ridiculously long, featherless necks. Overall, the birds stood taller than a man. Their wings, being very small, were useless for flying. Cm their backs were equestrian saddles, modified somewhat to fit the birds' odd anatomy.

  "What are they?" the apprentice gulped. "The result of a wizard's misfired spell?"

  Justarius's eyebrows shot up, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "Quite possibly that was the origin of austritches. They live on open plains, like those in southern Kharolis. They can't get off the ground with those great, thick bodies and insignificant wings, so they're used as pack animals."

  "What are they doing here?"

  "The Knights' Jest. Watch." Justarius nodded his head toward the bird opposite them. A rotund, red-faced man overdressed in red-trimmed forest-green togs put a hammered metal bucket on his head, stuffing the handle under the rolls of his chin. A square had been cut in the front for visibility in the mockery of a knight's helm. After a thickly padded cuirass was buckled around his torso, he was handed a shield. Guerrand laughed when he saw that it bore the arms of a chicken rampant over crossed drumsticks. The long, thin neck of his austritch had been decorated with a strip of green cloth.